November

one bright red strawberry on the strawberry plant

mist still low, tangled in the branches of olive trees

the way the pomegranates hang low

with the burden of their own weight

and the child’s small voice echoes

from the bedroom,

growing louder as she announces

her place in the space of things

black sea glass, malachite, pyrite heavy

in the hand

he holds the rocks one by one

carefully but clumsily in the way

only a child can,

as he whispers softly to himself

we still have so much life to live

you said,

nearly out of the blue, and the view

was just a scrap of sky,

but it was enough,

it was our scrap of sky.

Emilie has been living in Catalonia, Spain, since 2002. She is a poet, translator, creative writing instructor, mama of two and seeker of quiet spaces. Her work has been published in various journals and magazines, including New American Writing 33, HAD, Clerestory, Porridge Magazine, Piel, Libro Rojo, arRELATS, and Parentheses. You can find her on IG @emiliedelcourt and at www.writewya.com.